Rain
by unutterably stupid dragon
Summary: Under Construction: This time Napoleon is in trouble, Illya has to find him and has an unlikely partner ... Inspired by Toto's Africa.
1. Chapter 1

Rain

"I hear the drums echoing tonight …"

Napoleon Solo, clad in the khaki of the African adventurer, nursed his gin and tonic in a corner of the bar. His quick eyes surveyed the patrons, locals and travelers. Outside the night was quiet, insects and animals not yet ready to take over from the human sounds of music and laughter. In his mind's eye, he could see Kilimanjaro rising in the distance, the three dormant volcanic cones still covered in ancient ice.

He looked at his watch. Midnight. The witching hour. His contact seemed to have chickened out on coming to see him. With only a code name to go by, Solo didn't know if his contact was a man or a woman. Either way, no one had approached him to ask about the feathers in his wide brimmed Great White Hunter hat. The conversations around him were quiet, very few of the clientele getting so drunk they were inclined to be aggressive. Except for the two waitresses, there didn't seem to be a lot of women in the place.

Half an hour after midnight, he decided to pack it in and return to his rooms. Moshi was a quiet provincial town; the only real tourist trade intent on snapping pictures of the mountain and wildlife out on the Serengeti. He paid his tab, sat the hat on his head at a slight angle and strolled into the night attempting to ignore the growing feeling of being watched. A part of him wished his usual partner was around, but the stubborn Russian was back in New York still recuperating from wounds inflicted on their last mission. The THRUSH madman they'd encountered seemed to be a combination of Dr. Dabree and Dr. Egret with a penchant for skinning his enemies. Illya had lost a three inch swathe of skin down his side.

UNCLE medical in New York had successfully used an experimental mesh to encourage new skin growth, but the process was time consuming as well as painful for the Russian, leaving him occupied in R&D instead of out in the field. Napoleon wondered again whether the two of them were too close to being friends to work together. He dismissed the thought as the crawling feeling between his shoulderblades took on life as dark figures emerged from the shadows of the building to surround him.

Training fell into place and he fought his attackers but the number of men surrounding him grew in a most unsettling fashion. Black hands clutched at him, chilling his skin where they touched until they took him under, piling over and under him until he was smothered in the dark.

Half a block away, Miriam Akele hurried toward Solo and his attackers. A small slender woman in her mid twenties, her dark skin hid her from observing eyes as she rushed to find the man she was to give the information she stole from her employers. She had been so fortunate to get a good job as a secretary, a responsible position for a woman of her background. Then she realized that her employers were evil men, not because they were white, although they were, for the most part foreigners; but for what they were doing. Their manufacturing site was a sweatshop full of children and young people being worked to death on some project she could not begin to understand. Her Aunt Bethani put her in touch with the uncles, men who had the good of the world at heart. She made the commitment to meet with a man at the bar another of her actual uncles owned. Now she was late, the foreman kept her finishing up reports he needed for the next day. She did not understand the reports as they were neither in her native tongue nor in the English she worked so hard to learn.

Ahead of her there was something in the street, some sort of action. She stopped and stared. It was as though the shadows had life and were taking a struggling man down. Fear held her in place until a hand grabbed her hair and tugged her head back. Before she could struggle, Miriam felt the sting of a sharp blade across her throat. Then she could not breathe, blood spurted forth and air rattled from the wound in her neck.

Hands like ice held her, tipping her to one side to catch the red fluid, black in the moonlight, in a bowl. Her last thought was of the man she would not meet and of the horrors in store for her people because she died here and foolishly.


	2. Chapter 2

"She's coming in twelve-thirty flight"

Angelique landed at the newly renamed Jomo Kenyatta International airport, not a hair out of place. She was clad in tailored khaki instead of her usual exquisitely haut couture style, sturdy hiking boots displacing her Italian handmade spike heels. Inside the air-conditioned terminal, she breezed through customs with two wheeled bags and out into the heavy night air. A dusty limosine met her, the driver nearly as dark as the night, his ebon face split by a white smile as he nodded to the lady. Archie Ruballa stood six foot four and was built like a pro linebacker in American football. Stowing her bags in the trunk, he handed her into the backseat where Ruben Stacks awaited her.

"What news?"

"He's in Moshi, ostensibly for the view." The little man referred to the distant sight of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

"Nothing more? Nothing on his contact?"

"No. Except that the contact was for tonight and did not show up. Solo's gone for a walk. This late, following him would be difficult even for our man in Moshi."

She nodded her understanding. "Very well. I have a room booked. I'll head to Moshi in the morning …All right, later in the morning. Have a vehicle ready for me by … eleven. I should be ready by then. Anything else?"

He shook his head. He never quite got over watching Angelique when she was around so he was content to just look at her while they delivered her to the hotel.

Behind them, an elderly taxi carried a pale man toward the same destination.

The hotel was a mix of traditional African and modern architecture. A broad verandah surrounded the first floor, channeling whatever breeze there was into the dim interior through the wide doors and windows. The lobby was welcoming, the area dotted with worn leather couches and chairs next to small tables to accommodate visitors who preferred shade to the glare of the sun. During the day, drinks were served here as well as in the bar.

The blond man stepped out of the taxi a few minutes after the limousine deposited Angelique and her luggage. He nodded to the driver as he paid for the ride. As he walked through the doorway, his inside jacket pocket made a muffled warbling sound. A sigh escaped him as he located a secluded area and withdrew what looked like an expensive pen. A twist of the cap revealed that the item was a sophisticated communication device.

"Kuryakin here," he identified himself quietly, praying that he did not sound as tired as he felt after the long flights to get him to Nairobi.

"Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly, seated in his office surrounded by the tech tools of his trade, addressed his most recalcitrant agent. "I was not aware of assigning you to Mr. Solo's mission."

"I'm still on leave, sir," the Russian responded, his slight accent deepening, knowing that if the old man wanted him back in New York, he would have to go.

"As long as you are there strictly as a tourist, I have no objection. You will check in with UNCLE Nairobi in four days if you are not returning here. Understood?" The older man's voice was as bland as usual, only the hint of steel beneath the words.

"Understood, sir," Illya acknowledged the order. "Kuryakin out." He cut the connection and secured the device in his jacket again before heading to the check in desk.

The young man behind the wide expanse of expensive wood gave him a gleaming smile while not truly paying much attention to the nondescript blond. At this hour, routine kept him running rather than actual interest until he accepted the American Express card to pay for the room.

"Yes, I can accept this. Give me just a moment to make the security deposit, sir."

Illya suppressed a smile at the importance he had gained by having one of the new, internationally accepted credit cards. While he was distrustful of the payment method, UNCLE supported the concept and he would, as always, use the tools at his disposal.

The desk clerk returned with a multi-layered strip of paper for him to sign and returned the card. "Will you be staying long?"

Excellent question. He hired the room for a week, ignoring the curious look at his single suitcase. A bell boy appeared next to him as if magically summoned, offering to take the bag as he showed the Russian to his room.

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, do you?" The lush tones of a feminine voice froze Illya in place for a moment as she slipped her arm through his. "Do lead the way."

"Angelique," he muttered as they followed the uniformed man to the elevator, an elegant wrought iron embellished cage from an earlier day.

"How are you, my dear Stone?" she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice.

"Well, and you?"

The chit chat of small talk occupied them until the bellboy ushered them into Illya's room, his hand out for a tip. Angelique obliged, know how thrifty her companion tended to be. Closing the door behind the local, she leaned against it, turning the key in the lock and then holding it out to Illya. He took it much in the manner of a man expecting a scorpion instead of a key.

"Really, Mr. Stone. I have no intention of biting or harming you. I understand you're here in a personal capacity rather than a business one." She met his gaze directly as she moved into the room and then around him to take a seat in yet another wicker chair. "I think they've been watching too many American movies about Africa," she changed direction, running a hand over the time smoothed surface. "What do you think?"

"I think you're up to something."

"Oh, my. Some day you really must learn to deal with banter, Mr. Stone."

She remained silent as he checked the room for electronic surveillance devices. Finding the room clean, he set up a small interference generator before turning back to his unwelcome guest.

"Why are you here?"

"Very possibly for the same reason you are: to check up on Mr. Solo. And to see about retrieving an employee who's gone missing. Not the sort of person you want loose without a keeper, I'm afraid."

Anyone less afraid looking would be difficult to imagine, but if there was a THRUSH lunatic loose in the area, confining him or her would be a good thing. "Who?"

"That would be telling, darling. However, I have it on good authority that Mr. Solo's contact for tonight did not show up. She works for a large landowner about whom even we have had a hard time finding out what he does aside from spend money on a huge complex with far too sophisticated security."

He regarded her suspiciously, but then, that was generally his attitude where the lovely THRUSH agent was concerned. "Why are you telling me this?"

She met his gaze again, her own as serious as his. "I'm not sure you're familiar with local legends," she seemed to change the subject. "Over the last hundred years a dozen men fitting Napoleon's general description have vanished without a trace." She held up a hand to forestall his comments. "I know. People vanish in Africa, or anywhere that is relatively unsettled." She looked out the window to where the mountain loomed, a darker shadow in the night. "I head to Moshi in the morning. If we travel together, you can keep a better eye on me."

With that she stood and gestured to the door.

Later, he might question why she locked it in the first place, but they were both covert agents for international organizations, not the sort of employment that bred trust.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning dawned to gray clouds and drizzle. Angelique regarded the day with a jaundiced eye. The humidity was hard enough on her usually expensively coiffed hair. She settled on a simple French twist as she dressed. The Serengeti was not the place for elegant Western clothing or attitudes.

An errand runner from the local Satrapy brought her news from Moshi. Solo was missing, his bed unslept in; the woman dead, her body left nearly bloodless in the street. The THRUSH agent smoked half a cigarette as she analyzed the information, stubbing out the remainder in a crystal ashtray before heading down the hallway to the Russian's room.

Angelique might have preferred to head out without the man, but she knew his expertise in many things would be useful to her. Her knock elicited a thump and a slight delay before Kuryakin opened the door and scowled at her. Turning away, he headed for the washstand provided, leaving her to enter as she chose.

A quick glance showed her a bed in turmoil. The Russian had not slept well. His usual catlike movements were slowed. She shelved her worry. It would not do to let him know his condition troubled her. Weakness was a liability in her organization and Angelique was not weak.

"Join me for breakfast?" she offered.

A nod was the response. "Fifteen minutes."

She left, pulling the door closed after her.

Downstairs, the lobby was in disarray, tables and chairs overturned and broken. Behind the bar, most of the expensive bottles decorating the shelves were shattered. She stopped by the desk. "What in the world?"

The woman shrugged her colorfully clad shoulders. "I do not know. It was like this when I got here this morning. We are righting it quickly." Even as she spoke, there were men cleaning up debris and setting chairs on their feet. "The dining room is fine and the kitchen was left untouched. Breakfast is being served now."

Illya joined her a few minutes later, still pale, but clad in his usual black slacks, shirt and jacket. In deference to the weather, the shirt was a button down instead of a turtleneck. They ordered and ate in silence until he asked what had happened to the lobby.

She echoed the shrug of the woman on the desk. "It was like this when the morning clerk arrived. Come to think of it, she did not mention the night clerk."

Silence reigned between them until the car arrived, packed with the survival gear Angelique had ordered. "I have food, water and tents. I did not request a change of clothes … for you."

That actually garnered a small smile from the blond man. He vanished upstairs and returned with his overnight bag. "Everything I need," he noted as he found a place to tuck the suitcase. She noted with approval that he'd changed his somber outfit for the more traditional khaki.

She climbed into the Landrover and started the engine as Illya joined her. Given what she knew of his recent injuries, she was not surprised when he did not offer to drive. Instead, he dozed in the passenger seat as she maneuvered them through the crowded streets of Nairobi and out onto the narrow two lane road that would take them to Moshi and then to the slopes of Kilimanjaro. Her own objective, to locate a missing THRUSH scientist, pointed her at the mountain rising serenely in the distance.

As she drove, she could not shake the idea that Solo would be found there as well, or the feeling of being watched.

Mfumfumfu

Gerendy Coda observed the two agents leaving Nairobi. His mole in THRUSH warned him that a top field operative was coming, just as he had been alerted to the agent in Moshi and the traitor in his own ranks. While his foreman had delayed the girl, he denied having anything to do with the woman's death.

"She gave us the slip, boss. We lost her. Not that we would have let her live …" he'd said with a leer Coda understood. His men were a crude and loutish lot, but good enough for the work at hand.

He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand and drove to Nairobi to investigate the new agent. He was surprised to see a woman, a very young and beautiful woman. What was THRUSH thinking? How could she be the agent? He thought he understood when she joined a medium sized, lightly built man in his early thirties. Of course, she was for show, a cover, while the man was the true agent.

He would chastise his mole for believing in foolishness.

Alfred Guest stared at his employer in disbelief. "You said a blond man? Russian?" Coda nodded. "Oh Hell! Oh bloody hell. I'm out of here."

He rose to leave, the sound of a bullet being racked into position stopping his movement. "You just described the number two agent out of New York," he attempted to enlighten the other man. "That's not THRUSH, that's one of the UNCLE bad asses. Solo's the attention getter, the suave and debonair type. That little blond sod is twice the danger Solo is. Name's Kuryakin. Rumor has it he's a KGB plant in the ranks. Likes to blow things up. Enjoys killing. Heartless, he is. The two of them … y'know how they say the female is the deadlier of the sexes, together I wouldn't give you a snowball's chance in hell if they get on to you. Kill the two of them. Before they get any further. Now, I'm going. If I hear anything more, I'll be in touch."

He left Coda considering what he'd just learned. If Guest was right, the only thing to do was kill the man and the woman. If he moved now, he knew an assassin who could get the job done before they reached Moshi.


	4. Chapter 4

Rain 4

Coda considered what his man inside had told him. If Guest was right, the only thing to do was kill the man and the woman. If he moved now, he knew an assassin who could get the job done before they reached Moshi. Unlike the agents, Coda was supremely confident in his abilities and his money. He was thus unaware of the eyes that followed him, noted his actions and withdrew to consider the next action.

Mfumfumfumfu

The sound of torrential rainfall awakened the sleeping man. Water splashed in the gutters over the deep set windows, splashing onto the mosaic surface of the balcony outside to sluice dust and the dirt of many passing feet away until the rain hit the plaza below. He stretched, the play of muscles under his lightly tanned skin revealing scars of long healed injuries. Tossing aside the light covering he lay under, he moved to the window and stared out at the rain, his gaze finally falling to the plaza where the huge block of basalt in the center was now decorated with a woman's nude body.

Shock ran through his system as he stared, eyes widening. What was her name? Tha'kala, that was it. Last night she shared his bed, welcoming his embrace, sporting with him in joy. Now her body, throat slashed open, lay chilling in the rain that washed away whatever blood there had been. Why? The question beat at him. Why kill her? Why not just keep her away from him if he had transgressed by knowing her? Or her by … His head pounded as the headache returned, blurring his vision.

He blinked and shook his head, like an angry lion. When his vision cleared he knew why she died, because knowing him, she could be used by no other. Stupid custom. Especially when he had not indicated he did not desire her for more than one night of coupling. What if he had decided upon her? Was a descended god not allowed to sample before he made his choice?

Anger rose up, this time directed at the priest. How dare he slaughter one the great Gilasham chose without consulting him first? He strode across the room, catching a glimpse of himself as he passed a bronze mirror polished until it provided a good reflection. Gilasham froze in mid movement. Who was this pale stranger? Tall, well formed, scarred; but he did not know those scars on the faintly gilded frame. Dark eyes under straight brows, a finely chiseled face stared back at him, framed by dark hair only just becoming shaggy from a short period of growth. Who the hell was this? What had that never sufficiently damned priest done to him?

Agony slashed through his brain, driving him to his knees, hands pressed to his temples as though to suppress the pain. Was this death come for him? He dove into the welcoming blackness.

Napoleon Solo knelt panting on the cold stone of the floor, the beauty of the inlaid mosaic lost on him as he came to himself. Time had passed. He was in the stone city, his third awakening here. His gaze traveled to the mirror, his image reflected in wavy confusion. Slowly he regained his feet. Naked, he was lightly tanned everywhere, from toes to face the golden sheen was his skin, not the tint of the mirror.

Quickly he examined himself for damage. Aside from his knuckles, skinned from some conflict, he was whole. In an uncharacteristic gesture, he ran his hands through his hair, noting the length. Some time had passed. His usual cut was shaggy although clean. A faint smile curved his mouth. Illya would have something to say when he saw him.

Illya. Quick images of the slightly built Russian slammed through his mind. Where was Illya? Where was he? A short kilt and wide leather belt lay across a wooden bench next to a low table. He pulled them on with sure fingers, ignoring the alien quality of the movements before returning to the windows. Shadows of his activity the night before danced through his muddy thoughts. The body below brought clarity. He was in a city, a huge, monolithic city near a massive single mountain. Snow topped the heights. The name of the place sheltered in the shadows of his mind, just out of reach.

Ki'imajalla, the forever shaking mountain.

There was another name, but he could not find it. The city was Osh'ki'milatta where dwelt the rulers of the mountain and surrounding land. The Shadow Warriors of the great … the great … another name tantalizingly out of reach. When Illya arrived, he would have the information.

Which left him with the question again of where his partner was and why he wasn't here … yet?

A whisper of sound alerted Napoleon to the arrival of his jailer. Paga'lat was not a large man; time had taken the straightness of his youth and bent the frame only slightly. He dressed simply, a woven kilt held in place by a woven belt decorated with golden images stitched in place. A sash divided his chest from right shoulder to left hip, also decorated with struck golden icons. In his long fingered right hand the priest gripped a staff of dark wood, faintly phallic in design, inlaid with stones and silver. His feet were bare, thickly calloused with much walking. Medium brown hair streaked with gray framed his face, tapering into a long braid down his back. Most speaking were his eyes, not the dark chocolate of most of the people, but a deep gray, sunken and brooding. He smiled, his mouth turning up but leaving his eyes unchanged.

"What do you want?" Napoleon snapped. For a moment he wondered where his usual calm and cool demeanor had gone. The memory of the body told him as anger churned forward again. He struggled to regain control of the emotions churning through him. "I haven't had breakfast yet," he continued.

The priest gestured. Two women, no, two slaves, naked save for broad bands hung low on their hips with draped fabric falling between their legs, entered with trays bearing food and drink. They set the items on the table and then knelt beside it, waiting. He could feel the fear rolling off them.

"Get out," he ordered, his voice harsh. Slaves. Fear. He hated both of them while knowing that this was the reality here. They ran past him and the priest leaving the two men to stare into each other's eyes.


End file.
